


A Rhythm For Two (No Faux Pas)

by firebadtreepretty



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: 5 Times, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Dancing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Holding, M/M, More holding than dancing, Moving Mentions, Phanfiction, Tour Mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 11:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebadtreepretty/pseuds/firebadtreepretty
Summary: You might think Dan & Phil and dancing do not mix together. But hear me out.~5 drabbles about 5 times Dan & Phil (nearly, almost, pretty much) danced together. Covering the years 2009, 2015-2017. Told from Dan's pov.





	A Rhythm For Two (No Faux Pas)

I 

You asked this the day we first met.

That’s what you are always doing to break the ice – spontaneously asking people random stuff, usually the one thing they least expect. It’s your way to be polite and attentive, to engage a person in conversation, but also to test their comfort zones, I think. You are still not smooth, I must say, but you have been improving.

“Can you dance?”

I said yes, obviously. Obviously, I lied.  

I was so eager to impress, and you were so easily impressed. You generously gave me all of your attention, without second thought. Listening carefully to what I say, attending to my comforts, wanting to know all about my interests and suddenly – actually taking part in my life. That’s when I found out how good, how addictive it can be.

That day was full of firsts, actually. All at once, one crazy dizzying wonderful whirlpool of new experiences. I would blame your impatience to have all at once, right here and right now, but I can’t, really. It’s one of magnetizing characteristics of yours that make you who you are. I mean, more often than not it’s just impulsive purchase via Amazon next-day delivery, when you are suddenly nostalgic for a specific fruity digestive. But sometimes – it’s ambitious goals and projects, and that fire, that passion suddenly comes in handy to start, to persevere, to organize and to get things done.

It was in the evening, back in your parents house living room, after you took me out for a fancy meal. I was buzzing with new impressions, a bit sweaty, a bit tipsy, still in the creased shirt I wore since early morning, smelling of train, and smoke, and people.

I thought you meant club dancing.

Instead, you moved closer and took my hand in yours. You were so very awkward, Phil, but what else is new. I think you were a bit scared to take my palm, so you wrapped your hand around my wrist, clumsily trying to get a bunch of festival bracelets out of the way; second hand - way too high on my back, in a tight fist. You kept at least half a step distance from me, a little taller and broader, pale, with flushed cheeks, hiding your eyes under the fringe.

I couldn’t keep a stupid nervous laugh in.

Eventually, I put my hand on your shoulder and followed your uncertain lead.

Step forward – step back (ow!), step forward – step (owwww!) back - and (thank god!) we were both back on the sofa, laughing our faces off, forgotten movie rolling in the background.  

Gosh - that was the shortest and awkwardest dance in the history of dances. Glad you didn’t get inspired by some other scenes from the movie we watched earlier (maybe you just saved them). My right toe might have been hurt, stomach aching from laughing too much. But once again that evening I felt unexplainable warmth building up in my chest.

***

That was our first dance together, but here are others.

 

II

Another time was in Australia, during one of our tour stops.

It is a little after midnight local time. I don’t want to leave the balcony in spite of the chilly air. The night city view of Adelaide is just so peaceful, with tall softly lit buildings, colourful blinking lights and cars moving in orderly rows through the highway in the distance. We have had a rare free day, with a bit of sightseeing, trying local foods and lounging around watching Olympics. A nice little breather before the next day rolls on and we have to dive back into the ruthless work schedule.

I am standing here, leaning against balcony rails, struggling to keep my eyes open: sleepy, yet dragging out this tiny illusion of freedom just a little longer, when –

 

I feel something – apparently a coat – land on me, the hood falling down and covering most of my face. A strong stifled cough comes out of my throat, mostly out of surprise.

“There is a comfy bed, y’know,” I hear your voice from behind. I can see your breath.

“I was having… a moment. Meditating,” I grumble, clearing my throat and fixing the coat on my shoulders. Damn, my chest is sore.

“Mhmm.”

You come forward, lean on the railing beside me and shuffle in close.

We stand in silence for a bit, two tall figures in the dark, our exhales synching up. Can’t really see much within reach; the pulse of the city lights, my cheeks tingling from cold and your shoulder pressing into mine are the only three points of contact tying me to reality in this moment.

***

“You should probably go inside. You are still recovering,” you offer.

“ _You_  aren’t even wearing a coat!” Touché. Don’t coddle my pneumonia, Lester.

“Good point.”

I feel you move behind my back, grabbing me in a tight lockout and trying to swing me left-right, right-left.

“What… whatcha you doing?”

“Warm-up. Penguin style.” 

You won’t stop swinging me from side to side. Where does the energy even come from?

Resisting you is a damn effort. So I give in.

“Yeah? The  _peng-weng_  dance?” I come up with an outdated reference.

“The  _peng-weng_ ,” you repeat in the same voice, moving from one foot to the other together with me.

***

“If anyone sees this “gracefulness”, Phil, they’ll be returning the tickets right away.” No, but for real.

“Good thing no one’s watching, then,” you say quietly.

I feel a cold ear against my cheek and a chin on my shoulder, your arms tight around my middle.

My head feels heavier, body slowly relaxing. Never stopping the rhythmic movement, I close my eyes.

***

Your leg coordination was not worth that coughing fit I had after, Phil, I’m just going to put it out there. Just kidding, I think it was the last bad one. You should patent your mysterious technique that cures hiccups and pneumonia. Do not forget to include a terrible pun in the name.

 

III

Remember the day of the closing party for TATINOF UK?

Our UK tour was mostly bumpy roads in a stuffy car, dusty closet-sized dressing rooms, lukewarm fast food. Trying and failing to take under control a ginormous number of things. A marathon to set up and perform a show every two-three nights, a group of supportive faces, a sense of accomplishment. You, often sick, but enthusiastic, beside me. Bone-deep exhaustion.

I worked myself good that first time we went touring, didn’t I. God.

If there’s a limit to a person’s resource, I think I reached it and went way over. Squeezed out every last drop of sweat and blood, and then borrowed some. It’s just – I wanted it to be perfect, to go smoothly. I felt the need to prove I’m worth something, that I’m not a mediocrity, I will not let people down. I will help produce this bloody show and star in it, whatever it takes.  

That day of the final big London show – I am not sure how we survived it. I think we got shoved through it, quite literally.

Home – taxi – rehearsal, a bite of sandwich, meet and greet, sound-check, on stage – off the stage, 1 minute in shower, fancy shirt on – taxi – quick shot of us going through the crowd (for the movie) – arriving at the closing party. Crying inside because of the flight to the US early next morning.

***

Full hour into the party, and at this point, there is more substance to me, than me. I’ve had two coffees and two Red Bulls throughout the day, a glass of celebratory champagne at the venue, on my fourth cocktail now. The colours are too vibrant, the music beat is pounding through my entire being, people’s voices are distant and echo-y. Everything feels quite surreal, but somehow I don’t hate it. We’ve talked to at least five different groups of people now, and I was almost fully engaged every time. Your voice has gone an octave lower, you are more pale and hyper than usual, not holding back any toothy smiles, vodka cocktail in your hand.

Then a Bruno Mars song comes on, and this guy – Jack, or James, or Jake – is forcing everyone to dance, quite aggressively so.

Don’t plan to dance, don’t want to dance. But it seems like I don't have a choice this time: Bryony and Fleur are suddenly near us, eager and encouraging, pulling our forearms. We resist at first, laugh apologetically and shake our heads. It doesn’t work and eventually, we are pushed right in the middle of the dance floor.

There are maybe twenty people here, some dancing, some standing in small groups, trying to yell and gesticulate over the loud music. You do something unexpected right then – you grab my shoulder and start moving from one foot to another, pulling me closer, engaging me in your awkward imitation of a dance.

I am totally not buying it.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying it out. Come on Dan, dance with me!” you are making pleading eyes.

You normally hate these kinds of situations, I know you do. Yet there’s something carefree and nonchalant about you in this moment, you’re just – going for it. Like all the weariness and work mode are not there anymore, and you're suddenly determined to jump out of your comfort zone, dragging me along.

“Trying it out”, apparently, means copying the club dancing from one of the last teen dramas we watched, thankfully, in a much more mellow fashion. Easy, easy. You should control your hips movement better, you know. I hold onto you to steady your rhythm a little. 

It’s dark in here. Purple, white and green disco lights are sliding across your body. I occasionally catch a quick snapshot of your face, whenever the lights reflect off it from a random angle, blinding me for a split second. You look like a translucent human fairy light with a fringe. You suit it, so I tell you this.

“Did you call me a fairy?”

“Yeah, Tinker Bell was your aunt,” I raise my voice over the music.

“Sorry, can’t hear you!” you shout back with a grin.

I stifle a laugh.

You put your arms around my neck; your palms are warm, like always. Your fingers are fluttering ever so slightly, like you are trying to pull me even closer, as if it was possible. I am not sure you are aware that you are doing this. I catch your open expression, face muscles relaxed, eyes warm and crinkly. I could be only imagining it, my reactions are so slowed down. I can smell fruity alcohol, and a slight scent of shampoo, and that aftershave both of us use.

I lean in.

The song stops and the lights on the dance floor go off for few moments. We stand in the dark tangled in each other. It’s stupid, careless, but neither moves away. Like all the worries and anxious anticipation of what tomorrow brings – suddenly find their way out through this one silly, rebellious thing we do.

The lights come back on. You look debauched, your eyes brighter than I’ve seen in weeks. The alcohol is slowly wearing off, I sure am going to be dead on the plane tomorrow, physically. But I feel lighter, looser inside, like something gave. Like I am ready – for the rest of it.

***

Early next morning as we are finally seated, on our way to the US, I take two aspirins. My head is pounding, I have almost no sense of reality. I feel a cool hand on my forehead, as you are softly telling me you won’t let me do so much on my own again. I don’t hear the end of that sentence as I doze off.

 

IV

I never gave much thought to being married. I mean, I thought I’d like to, someday. Just, like, a natural expectation from life - from what I knew of life back then. Only I never really applied myself to that status - or the event.

But these people, they clearly did. Just look at the theme, the napkins match the roses in the bride’s bouquet. Your university friend clearly married the right person, with good taste in interior design and attention to details.

And a little girl. The one that can’t get enough of you for the entire celebration party.

“Uncle Phil, can you hold your hand up? Just once more? Uncle Phil! Pleeease!”

You are an agreeable person in general. But this little monster dressed as an angel owns you now. Admit it, there’s no two ways about it. Give up free will, withdraw your troops, she commands all your actions from now on. And just like that: you raise your hand, she grabs your fingers with her little palm, and twirls, and twirls, and twirls again.

I don’t think I ever saw you being like this with kids. Maybe you weren’t like this before.

Finally Lisa gets tired and her mum makes her sit down and have some water.

***

You join me back at our table. You are short of breath.

“Should I be worried, then?” I turn to you.

“Huh?”

“You have a new best friend now?”

“Ah. Didn’t know how to break this to you,” you say as you down a glass of juice.

“Always knew you were fickle,” I tease.

“Done quite a bit of cardio, too,” you say proudly.

“ _Now_  I’m worried,” I am not done yet. “Want me to take your blood pressure?”

“Hey!” you smack my knee under the table.

We try some cake, the blueberry sponge one, with mint and meringues on top.

“Mm, this is good! I like this one,” you sigh with enjoyment.

Always the sugar fiend, aren’t you. I swear you can consume three times as much sugar as a normal person. Where does it even go, you lanky bastard. Do you have secret pouches where you store the excess sweetness?

***

Suddenly I am startled by someone small landing right between us on the sofa, pushing us apart.

“I don’t know if there is a meteor named after you, but there should be one. Meteor Lisa,” I say.

The girl pushes back till she is against the sofa cushion, seats herself comfortably between us and looks at me with her wide blue eyes.

“You would be a meteorite, though. Meteors burn in the atmosphere. Meteorites fall to the ground,” you explain. Lisa is turning her head from you to me to you again.

“Do meteorites kill people?” she wonders. She's only four, but her Northern accent is clear and proud. I feel a little pang in my heart.

“They can. But you wouldn’t, right? Imagine being a traveler from far, far away. You’d want to be a friendly meteorite at your new home, yeah?” Phil, lay off your morals and let this child be a fierce cosmic force.

“Maybe... What am I made of?” Lisa wants to know.

“Cosmic dust from many distant stars and planets.” Eh, way to sell this.

“Ew! I don’t want to be dust,” she decides. “I am a star!” See, she wants to be a star now. How cliché. She would be a cute star, though.

“You can be a star, if you want.” Aw, stop it.

“Yaaaaaaaaay!” she is clapping. “I am a star and you are my star friends.” That works, I suppose.

She squishes both of us, reaching as far as she can with her short arms.

The next moment she is on the floor, tugging the sleeves of our dress jackets, dragging us towards the front of the room. You give me a fondly doomed look and we follow her.

She catches your and mine fingers and twirls round and round, making us run in circles after her. Her green and blue floral dress is fluttering along with her blonde curls and ribbons.

“Here’s  _your_  cardio for the day,” you say to me between breaths.

“Mm,” I can’t hold back a wide smile.

We raise our hands, lifting Lisa above the ground and spinning her around. She is the space body, after all. Her mum is cheering and waving at us from her seat. Lisa keeps giggling and squeaking with excitement.

This is not so bad.

I could get used to it, one day. As, y’know, natural expectation from life.

From what I know of it now.

 

V 

Then there's that day before we moved out of our old London apartment, for good.

I have been standing in the middle of our living room for a while now. I think I came to pick up something and just spaced out for a second.

I look around and the room feels empty and messy at the same time, and for some reason so, so unsettling. Completely unfamiliar, with most of the furniture gone, and a million boxes around me, all stacked on each other, forming asymmetric leaning pyramids. All of my life compactly packed in identical beige carton cubes. All little trinkets, board games, books, DVDs, framed cards and souvenir figures, carefully collected by both of us over the years, gone, ready to be moved and rearranged in a completely new way.  

The grey sofa is still here, though. With the crease, or shall I say creases: mine, famous all over the internet, and yours, never mentioned, but definitely visibly there (right next to mine).

Fuck if this sofa hasn’t seen me at my lowest.

In the new apartment it goes in the nook downstairs, in its dark little corner where it belongs, so it’s fine.

/Cut/

\- and you’re standing in my space.

The move should feel good, right? A fresh new start, a bright opportunity to leave old baggage behind. The new apartment is so nice as well: light, spacious and stylish. I plan to overdecorate it to hell, and no one can stop me. No one. It will look like the most hipstery and chic nerd cave anyone has ever seen, just wait for it.

(I got some zany stickers, too, if, y’know, you wanna get creative.)

It’s just… It feels like I am losing my base, my old familiar space. Where I come at the end of a long day and nothing catches the eye, where everything feels right, feels safe. Feels like home.

The way you fit into me.

It’s ergonomic, that’s for sure. A complete opposite of the cold flat wooden floor surface in our infamous hallway. Our former hallway. And in all other hallways too. I know what I’m talking about, I’ve tested a lot of them in the past couple of years, with all the travelling we did.

I think of my old bedroom. My room – my escapist gaming cave, my work cabinet, my brainstorming zone. The one where I moved my bed next to the far wall that one time (and left it there for the whole six months).

My bed, on which I lied down with my eyes closed for the past five years, but got so little rest. I should totally ask a full refund for those shitty fairy lights, they are truly the worst functioning nightmare-catcher. The only things they ever caught were a dead spider and a dozen of my and your hairs. 

We have a beautiful new bedroom now. With simple grey and white décor, ambient lights, pretty mirrors, soft textures. So cozy, airy and calming, with such different feel to it, too. You shouldn’t make everything around you black, if you want none of it, I learned that the hard way.

You are still here. I fidget.

I am a fidgety person in general, annoyingly so. You don’t seem to mind, though. The way you anticipate and accommodate to each one of my little movements, almost subconsciously now. Almost naturally, like our bodies were designed to stay precisely 0.5 to 2 centimeters apart whenever we’re together, never further, and occasionally – so, so much closer. We’re fucking world champions in the ‘subtly together’ dance. An impossible, insane synchronicity born out of lots of practice.

We do practice so much. We used to bump our shoulders and knees, smack each other with elbows. Stand on each other’s toes. None of that now, though. It’s like our trajectories are very finely tuned to never collide, but always revolve around a single center. 

We truly live up to the worst stereotypes about us, don't we. Also the best ones. And anything in-between.

You sit me down on the sofa. You’re still in my space – as if I mind. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The 4th drabble was inspired by a conversation with a lovely phandom friend. :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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